Wednesday, February 28, 2018

Kenneth
Branagh’s retread of Agatha Christie’s Murder
on the Orient Express (2017) is funereal and not altogether a successful
affair. Okay, we will try to forgive Branagh his transformation of Christie’s
beloved – though hardly ‘lovable’ –
Belgian super sleuth, Hercules Poirot into a rather austere fusspot suffering
from bouts of manic/depressive clairvoyance. With his absurdly overgrown
handlebar moustache, Branagh, appears far more the clumsy knock-off of Kurt
Russell’s Wyatt Earp in 1993’s Tombstone
than the embodiment of Christie’s fastidious crime solver, still better
represented by Albert Finney in Sidney Lumet’s 1974 movie adaptation of this
ensconced and time-honored Christie literary classic, and, best of all, via
David Suchet’s monumental shouldering of the role in ITV’s long-running/Brit-born
television series – Poirot
(1989-2013).

It becomes more
of a challenge to digest Branagh’s departures from Christie’s carefully
concocted ‘puzzle’ drama. Evidently,
Branagh believed the creakiness of the old ‘locked
room’ mystery template needed ‘opening
up’ and a dash of Hollywood’s PC-friendly liberalism to fire its creative
pistons. So, we get a dramatically
staged foot chase across a windswept trestle, a gunfight in a cargo hold, a
dramatic avalanche tumbling from a stormy mountaintop, and, Broadway’s ‘Hamilton’ alumni, Leslie Odom Jr.
grotesquely miscast as Dr. Arbuthnot. In Christie’s novel, Arbuthnot is a
Caucasian snooty Englishman, formerly of her Majesty’s Guard and deserving only
of the rank of Colonel while valiantly serving the Empire with his regiment in
India. But no, this re-incarnation of Arbuthnot is black and bellicose. I am still trying to unravel the wisdom in
this; also, in rewriting the character of Count Rudolph Andrenyi (Sergei Polunin)
as a ‘fight club’ hot head kickboxer
whose one big scene is a bar room brawl where he hastily dispatches the
paparazzi with his Jackie Chan-styled moves, before being subdued by slinky
paramour, Countess Helena (Lucy Boynton).

Having
jettisoned Christie’s prologue, describing the abduction of Daisy Armstrong
(Christie’s homage to the Lindbergh baby kidnapping and untimely murder),
actually the crux for all that will follow, Branagh instead concentrates the
beginning of his movie on another episode excised from Christie’s novel, only
briefly mentioned therein, but herein, elevated into an almost James Bond
mini-adventure set against the Wailing Wall in Jerusalem, circa 1934. Screenwriter,
Michael Green’s contrivances inveigle Poirot in the theft of a Holy relic from
the Church of the Holy Sepulchre – Branagh using the occasion to evoke a ‘bad joke’ about a Priest (David Annen),
a Rabbi (Elliot Levey) and an Imam (Joseph Long) – each wrongfully suspected of
the crime; the episode apparently meant as a preamble to whet the audiences’
appetite for Poirot’s superior intellect and methodical deconstruction of an
unrelated crime to have otherwise baffled everyone else. Christie’s novel began with Poirot boarding
the Taurus Express for Istanbul (nee, Stamboul at the time Christie wrote her
novel) while Lumet’s 1974 film created a tabloid-esque preamble, depicting
Daisy’s untimely disappearance before picking up the story on a ferry crossing
to the European side of the city, and, where Poirot observes Arbuthnot (then,
played by Sean Connery) with his paramour, Mary Debenham (Vanessa Redgrave).

It is rather
pointless to go on with comparisons between Christie’s literary triumph and the
various big and small screen adaptations to have endeavored invariably to do it
justice. Suffice it to say, Branagh’s
latest stab plays with only marginal flashes of fidelity to its source
material. Taking a tip from the ’74 Lumet classic (still MIA in region 1 on
Blu-ray…what a sham!) Branagh has jam-packed his roster of ‘usual suspects’ with some marquee-grabbing
talent; albeit, none capable enough to eclipse the memory of their predecessors;
especially when Green’s screenplay makes short-shrift of each of their more
detailed contributions fleshed out in Christie’s novel, cut down in Lumet’s
version to satisfy time constraints, but herein remade as mere cardboard
cutouts to satisfy Branagh’s verve for making Poirot the self-indulgent focus
of the piece instead of the case.

So, Arbuthnot
gets heavily rewritten to satisfy Hollywood’s need for ‘the token minority’ in
a story that does not warrant such an inclusion. Necessary aside: it is neither
racist nor ethnocentric to point out that some stories were conceived from a
period when racial diversity was not considered a part of the collective
heritage. Accepting such tales at their face value as cultural artifacts from a
‘perhaps’ less enlightened period in human evolution is the way to go here. Amending
the record is to bastardize the period, taint the chronicle with an untruth,
but also to deny history itself under a misguided pretense the past either did
not exist or to promote it now as radically different. Badly done and enough said. Redgrave’s Mary
also gets a rewrite (ineffectually played by Daisy Ridley herein, teetering on
the verge of a nervous breakdown, and, pity the doe-eyed and fragile little
flower – yuck!). Josh Gad gives Hector McQueen a spin (a role originally played
with more frenetic finesse by Anthony ‘Psycho’
Perkins); Michelle Pfeiffer (Caroline Hubbard, contractedly cruelty, compared
to Lauren Bacall’s gum-chewing and talkative prig in ’74); Judi Dench (Princess
Dragomiroff, beady-eyed but less frosty than the caustic rum pot played by
Wendy Hiller), and, Johnny Depp (Samuel Ratchett, envisioned with less crass
pomposity, though far greater menace by Richard Widmark).

Branagh elects
to increasingly interrupt his main story with inserted B&W flashbacks
depicting the Armstrong abduction and its tragic fallout. Director Sidney
Lumet’s more succinct summation of these same events at the beginning of his
version does this far more effectively however, and all at once; allowing the
audience to wholeheartedly invest in a more linear timeline thereafter, as well
as the crime of murder, and, Poirot’s fastidious deconstruction of the facts as
they unfold. Even if we set aside these alterations to Branagh’s artistic
license, the one inexcusable oversight is his shifted emphasis away from the
crime, incidental to Poirot – the man; hisobsessive/compulsive tendencies (Poirot’s
hard-boiled eggs must be perfectly sized, his instruction to any gentleman is
to straighten an offset tie, etc. et al) and Poirot’s briefest reflections on a
previous romantic dalliance with a woman known only to us as ‘Katherine’;
superficially referenced by Poirot, carrying her pocket-sized head shot in a
decorative silver frame, shattered during the train’s derailment. These
episodic glimpses into Hercules Poirot neither ingratiate us to his idiosyncratic
behaviors nor draw us deeper into the central narrative. Furthermore, Agatha
Christie remained rather circumspect throughout Poirot’s entire literary reign,
divulging as little as possible about his past and/or personal character,
beyond the obvious super-intelligence burrowing within all those ‘little grey
cells’. So, why bother? Christie’s Poirot remained an enigma. This was, in
fact, part – if not all of his ‘charm’.

For all its
flaws, this version of Murder on the
Orient Express remains a rather stylish affair, Branagh showing off Jim
Clay’s cut glass and mahogany production design in the train’s interiors,
contrasted with dramatic CGI depictions of the bleak winter landscape just
beyond its frosty windows, all of it lensed by Director of Photography, Haris
Zambarloukos, and, set to Patrick Doyle’s occasionally intrusive – though
largely effective – musical underscore. We get some histrionic and un-selective crane
shots of the train pulling out of station, racing through the cluttered streets
of Istanbul (an almost James Cameron Titanic-inspired
departure with cheering crowds gathered on all sides), followed by as comparatively
breathtaking vistas of the Alps as our ill-fated sleeper winds its way between
some steep and snowy inclines, heading higher and higher into the mountains. It
all looks quite good, in a Polar Express
sort of way – yes. The point is, or rather ought to have been, it’s all rather
pointless: filler shots to distract and take the audience out of these
otherwise claustrophobic surroundings. Anyone who has traveled by train for
more than a day can attest to the uncanny ‘cabin feverish’ quality of the
experience. Herein, however, it gets repeatedly – and needlessly – diluted.

Ditto for
Branagh’s brief digressions into ‘action’ set pieces – the avalanche, the gun
and fist fight between Poirot and Arbuthnot, his trestle chase after the oafish
McQueen, etc. Branagh is, in fact, at his best and most at home with Poirot’s
two penultimate bits of soliloquizing. These effectively reveal far more about
the character’s world-weariness with humanity and, not surprisingly given
Branagh’s theatrical background, take on an almost Shakespearean tone. We know
Branagh is a great actor. This is a given. His sad-eyed summations are the
stuff of riveting theater. He can – and does – completely hold an audience
spellbound without any further manipulations. But Agatha Christie was such a
clever authoress. She knew where to draw the line and end an already ‘good’
scene. By contrast, Branagh’s actor’s instinct here is to gild the lily with
even more great words orated into the ether. He almost seems to be wary
Christie’s reputation can still stand on its own merit in an age where the
definition of entertainment itself has morphed into the sort of ‘in your face’ assault on the senses.
This, I suspect, Christie would have found appalling; Branagh, pandering to
today’s impatient popcorn munchers, eager only for either a good car chase or
sex scene to juice things up. As neither is likely forthcoming in a movie set
aboard a train and decidedly about seemingly disparate strangers sleeping in separate
compartments, Branagh’s decision to ‘liven’ the show with some rather obnoxious
‘hurly-burly’ moments, further attenuates the picture’s whodunit nucleus. We get fitful vignettes inserted into an
otherwise old-fashioned goulash that never build, much less bottle a
distinguished head of steam.

This Murder on the Orient Express begins
with the aforementioned ‘bad joke’
caper at the Wailing Wall. Having exposed the real culprit responsible for the
theft of a priceless religious artifact, Branagh’s compulsive crime solver next
boards a ferry for Istanbul; encountering former governess, Mary Debenham and
Dr. Arbuthnot, each pretending to keep their love affair a secret. We segue to
the Hotel Tokatlian; witness Count Andrenyi’s quick-tempered dispatch of the
paparazzi, the arrival of the spurious Edward Ratchett with his entourage;
errand boy/number cruncher, McQueen and personal valet, Edward Henry Masterman
(Derek Jacobi – a Branagh favorite in a part originally played by Sir John Gielgud
in the 1974 movie). In the hotel’s kitchen, Branagh’s Poirot is reunited with
M. Bouc (Tom Bateman, rewritten in ‘74 as Signor Bianchi and played by Martin
Balsam). Bouc is an old friend and the Director of the line. He arranges for Poirot’s
passage on the Orient Express after his vacation plans are cut short by an
urgent telegram from London.

The slightly
disheveled Bouc, emerging from a backroom, is toting a young woman (Kathryn
Wilder) whom Poirot wisely reasons to be a prostitute. She openly admits it too
in a scene rather adorably played out strictly for laughs. Alas, it seems all
available first-class births are accounted for on the train, leaving Bouc to
pull rank and demand the porter, Pierre Michel (Marwan Kenzari) make temporary
accommodations for Poirot to bunk with Mr. McQueen. At the station, we also
meet the rest of our suspects, including feisty missionary, Pilar Estravados (Penélope
Cruz, in a part originally scripted as Greta Ohlsson and played with
Oscar-winning perfection by Ingrid Bergman in the ’74 movie). Unlike Bergman’s
backward religious frump, Cruz’s hot-blooded Pilar is not above beating off a
potential pickpocket at the depot. And so, our journey begins; Michael Green’s
screenplay wasting little time in allowing each of the principals one or two
lines, presumably to establish their characters for the audience. The Princess
Dragomiroff instructs her lady-in-waiting,Hildegarde Schmidt (Olivia Colman)
on what to order for dinner, as example. On board, we barely glimpse Willem
Dafoe, masquerading as racist German prof, Gerhard Hardman (a role with no
counterpoint in Christie’s novel or the ’74 version). He refuses to sit with
Arbuthnot because he is black. We also findManuel Garcia-Rulfo as Biniamino
Marquez (a part so inconsequential it barely bears mentioning). After
Ratchett’s murder has been committed, Green’s screenplay makes its flimsiest
stab at political correctness yet; Bouc insisting Poirot take the case, despite
his reservations, for the local constabulary will surely convict either Marquez
or Arbuthnot based solely on racial profiling.

Next, we are
introduced to boorish ‘businessman’
Edward Ratchett – an art dealer (Johnny Depp, channeling his inner Al Capone).
Ratchett offers Poirot a position as his personal bodyguard during their
three-day journey. Earlier, Ratchett received a death threat, confronting
Masterman as to its origins, but to no avail. Independently wealthy, Poirot
refuses the offer and calls out Ratchett for being a man of spurious means and
talents. Sometime later, as Poirot prepares for slumber he hears strange noises
coming from Ratchett’s compartment. Peeking into the hallway, Poirot is assured
by Michel there is no need for concern. But only a few moments thereafter,
another noise in the passageway causes Poirot to open his door yet again, this
time, witnessing the back of a woman in a red kimono darting down the crewman’s
passage. At this juncture, Branagh cuts to some high angle exteriors (all CGI)
of an electrical storm triggering an avalanche. The rush of cascading snow
derails the engine, leaving the passengers stranded in the middle of nowhere on
a precarious trestle.

The next
morning, Masterman is unable to stir his employer. Suspecting foul play, Poirot
breaks the lock on Ratchett’s compartment with his silver-tipped cane and
discovers him maliciously stabbed multiple times in the chest while he lay in
bed. The positioning of the wounds confounds Poirot, more so when Arbuthnot
confirms each appears to have been inflicted by either a right or left-handed
assailant. At this point, Caroline Hubbard admits to ‘a man’ in her compartment
the night before; Poirot remembering the previous day Hubbard and Ratchett had
flirted. As Bouc assures his passengers nothing can be done until the rescue
party from Brod arrives to dig them out, Poirot next unearths a partially burnt
note that ties Ratchett to the kidnapping of Daisy Armstrong. Ratchett is, in
fact, John Cassetti, the abductor/murderer of Colonel John (Phil Dunster) and
Sonia Armstrong’s (Miranda Raison) baby girl, blackmailing the couple for
ransom. Not long thereafter, Daisy’s body is discovered strangled in a field.
As a result, Sonia gave birth to a stillborn before dying from grief on the
operating table. John committed suicide and the family’s devoted nursemaid,
Susanne (Hayat Kamille) was wrongfully accused of the crime, hanging herself
while in police custody.

Poirot unearths
more evidence; a bloodstained handkerchief lying near Ratchett’s body and a
button from a conductor’s uniform in Mrs. Hubbard’s compartment. Helena insists
she saw another conductor – other than Michel – in the crewman’s passage the
night before. As Poirot knows there is no ‘other’ conductor aboard the train,
he now reasons a more sinister deception is underway. Conducting a search of
all the compartments, Poirot finds both the uniform with the missing button and
the red kimono neatly tucked into his own belongings. The killer is mocking
him. Now, Poirot really puts on his thinking cap. He deduces many of the
passengers aboard the Orient Express have direct ties to the Armstrong family.
Before he can begin to piece together the events, Mrs. Hubbard is stabbed in
the back – the wound, superficial.
Poirot elects to interview each suspect. Deflecting his plans, Mr.
McQueen makes a clumsy break for the trestle, slipping from its rickety wooden
platform and tumbling to the ground far below, mercifully – unharmed. Brought back
aboard, McQueen sheepishly admits he managed his employer’s books as part of
Ratchett’s scene to defraud his buyers: selling worthless goods at a premium to
fatten his coffers. Alas, while interrogating Mary in the luggage hold, Poirot
is shot by Arbuthnot in the shoulder. Arbuthnot makes the most erroneous claim:
that Poirot is the murderer. But he is prevented, presumably from finishing the
job, by Bouc. Now, Poirot takes stock. Arbuthnot, a former army sniper, would
surely not have missed. He never really meant to kill Poirot.

Poirot gathers
everyone in the nearby tunnel as the Brod rescue crew arrives to free the
derailed locomotive. He offers the curious gathering two alternate theories of
the crime. The first is straight-forward: someone, disguised as a conductor,
secretly boarded the train and murdered Ratchett as he slept before escaping
into the night after the derailment. Alas, this scenario is a little too neat
and tidy for Poirot. His second hypothesis is far more complex. Virtually
everyone aboard had cause to murder Ratchett. Mrs. Hubbard is exposed as Linda
Arden – a former stage actress who is, in fact, the late Sonia’s mother; the Princess
Dragomiroff, little Daisy’s godmother; Arbuthnot, Colonel Armstrong’s wingman
during his years of army service. Hardman (whose real name is Cyrus Bethman) is
an ex-P.I. and Suzanne’s lover, powerless to prevent her wrongful conviction,
though instrumental in her later exoneration – too late to stop her from
suicide. Linda confesses. She planned the revenge killing and hired the others
to partake in the execution; each, stabbing Ratchett with the same dagger to
avenge the original crime. Pierre stabbed Ratchett because the wrongfully
accused Susanne was his sister. Arbuthnot deliberately wounded Mrs. Hubbard to
convince Poirot of his ‘lone killer’ theory.

Placing
Ratchett’s revolver before the group, Poirot insists he must turn them in once
they arrive at their destination, suggesting their only escape now is for one
among them to shoot him dead. Bouc, after all, can – and will – lie. But not
Poirot. His entire life has been slavishly devoted to order and justice. Mrs.
Hubbard seizes the gun. But she aims its barrel at her own head and pulls the
trigger. Having anticipated as much, Poirot has emptied the bullets beforehand.
The trigger snaps back, leaving Caroline reduced to tears. With the train back
on track, Poirot pointedly concludes justice has already been served. For his
unspeakable act, Ratchett deserved death. Poirot will have to live with a lie,
solemnly declaring “There are no killers
here.” Disembarking at Brod, Poirot informs the Yugoslavian police of his
‘lone assassin’ theory, suggesting the suspect escaped on foot into the
mountains. The Orient Express departs, Poirot observing the blank faces of the
others staring back at him from the windows, their futures quite uncertain. If
justice has been served, the victory is moot and unfulfilling. For little Daisy
Armstrong’s murder continues to haunt these wounded souls. Suddenly, Poirot is approached by a British
military officer (Tom Hanson), whose instructions are to accompany him
immediately to Egypt. There has been a death on the Nile…hint, hint, and sequel in the works.

Murder on the Orient Express is a timeless
literary masterpiece, five-times removed from its source material with
Branagh’s latest adaptation. Personally, I prefer the 1974 version for its
blindingly all-star characterizations and its overall fidelity to Agatha
Christie’s novel. Sean Connery vs. Leslie Oden Jr. Vanessa Redgrave vs. Daisy
Ridley. Michelle Pfeiffer vs. Lauren Bacall. Anthony Perkins vs. Josh Gad.
Ingrid Berman vs. Penelope Cruz. You get the picture. The former contained a
roster of iconic legends appearing in memorable cameos. This latest incarnation
merely stuffs the Christie’s candy box with serviceable actors on the downswing.
The one exception to this rule is, of course, Kenneth Branagh. Though he
presents us with a Hercules Poirot unlike any to endear us to Christie’s, and
light years removed from Albert Finney’s superb evocation in Sidney Lumet’s
movie, it is nevertheless Branagh’s chops as an actor that salvage this Poirot from an otherwise largely
mediocre movie. Soliloquizing Poirot as a man of anguished confidences and vexed
dark spots, kept mostly hidden under his Teflon-coated persona as a peerless
crusader for the truth, Branagh gently peels back several layers of rawer human
emotion (a quality Christie’s Poirot lacks). And Branagh, as both star and
director, evolves Christie’s story into a far more fascinating character study
of the man behind the crime-solving; perhaps, even more efficiently than
Christie herself ever managed in all of Hercules’ 66 novelized adventures.

Murder on the Orient Express was originally
slated to go into production in 2013. For one reason or another, delays
occurred until June, 2015 when it was formally announced Kenneth Branagh had
agreed to partake both in front of and behind the camera. Branagh’s shift from
a dandified Poirot to a man obsessed with order is not seismic, but it bodes
well for yet another interpretation on this time-honored character we only
thought we knew. Indeed, and apart from this role, Branagh has emerged as one
of the latter-day 20th century’s consummate pros; legendary for his
cinematic Shakespearean outings (his best, likely Hamlet, 1996 – an extraordinary experience). Branagh is also famous
for his stormy marriage to actress, Emma Thompson (who left him for Greg Wise,
her costar in Sense & Sensibility).
Yet, perhaps Branagh’s greatest gift to the movies has been his ability to
understand the language of cinema from both ends of the house; his prowess as
an actor effortlessly married to a mastery of his camera eye, once seated in
the director’s chair. Though not the first to assume these dual
responsibilities, Branagh is nevertheless one of the premiere advocates living
and working in movies today whose films, though arguably unevenly ranked,
continue to unearth something genuinely fascinating about the creative talent
behind them.

Fox Home Video’s
4K debut of Murder on the Orient Express
is truly a cause for celebration. This combo pack comes with a Blu-ray version.
And while the Blu-ray offers stunning image quality, and several choice extras
to be discussed herein in just a moment, the real revelation here is the 4K
edition, yielding unparalleled crystal clarity to the nth degree. As stated
earlier, Haris Zambarloukos’ cinematography – shot on 65mm film – achieves a
mostly somber mood, thanks to its subdued color palette and low lighting
conditions. On the 1080p Blu-ray these virtues are nicely resolved in a way
that, while pleasing, absolutely pale to the 4K edition’s ability to resolve
minute textures and ever-so-slight tonal variations in deep and enveloping
greys, browns and blacks. As Zambarloukos’ has used a rather muted palette, the
exposure of such subtleties becomes even more obvious and impressive in 4K.
Flesh tones appear quite natural regardless of the version.

The 4K release
also bests the Blu-ray with a Dolby Atmos 7.1 multi-dimensional soundtrack. I
have read too many articles criticizing Atmos as just another home video fad
and/or ‘gimmick’ (a la 3D), and destined, quite soon, to cool in its popularity
to the point of obsolescence. Perhaps. Only time will tell. For certain, there
are, as yet, not enough of us out there who have retooled our home set-ups to
take full advantage of its perks. For this, I turned to a close friend and
early adopter whose system is ‘state of
the art’ (at present), and afterward, immediately went home to re-watch the
movie again on my more modest 5.1. What a difference; the ambient acoustic touches
of grinding pistons, howling wind and echoing ambient noise during crowd
scenes. Superb! Utterly and completely. Now, I will say this: had I not
experienced Murder on the Orient Express
first in Atmos, the 5.1 DTS track would have sufficed just fine.

Extras include
featurettes on Agatha Christie, the making (or rather re-making of this property),
deleted scenes and an audio commentary from Branagh and Michael Green. Only
this final extra is included on the 4K edition. The rest are housed exclusively
on the Blu-ray. These junkets are quite adequate, if generally unremarkable.
Bottom line: for Christie completionists, this version of Murder on the Orient Express will likely garner mixed reviews. It
possesses a visual eloquence the 1974 movie could only guess at, but lacks the
spell-binding array of artisans that illuminated the Lumet classic. In the end,
it’s a loss: the sacrifice leading to plenty of gloss, but lacking one collective
soul from its disparate participants. They act a lot, emote too little, and
wind up in support of Branagh’s inquisitively unique take on Hercules Poirot.
While I cannot in good conscience state I enjoyed this version more than
Lumet’s, it was a largely enjoyable outing. The 4K rendering is absolutely
perfect. The Blu-ray will also impress for those yet to have switched to a 4K
setup. Judge and buy accordingly.

About Me

Nick Zegarac is a freelance writer/editor and graphics artist. He holds a Masters in Communications and an Honors B.A in Creative Lit from the University of Windsor.
He is currently a freelance writer and has been a contributing editor for Black Moss Press and is a featured contributor to online's The Subtle Tea. He's also has had two screenplays under consideration in Hollywood.
Last year he finished his first novel and is currently searching for an agent to represent him.
Contact Nick via email at movieman@sympatico.ca